


Fool's Match

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Choices, Closeted, Dramatic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Enemies to Lovers, Fate & Destiny, Feelings Realization, Growing Up, M/M, Magicmates, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Puberty, Roommates, Secrets, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Starcrossed Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, The Crucible - Freeform, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford through the years, made up magickal history, not much more extreme than canon or anything but you know, yeah baby it's a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: The Crucible's purpose is to make good matches. In your first year at Watford, there's the Roommate Ceremony. And then, in your fifth year, there's the Magicmate Ceremony.Baz isn't sure why he has to suffer having Simon Snow as a roommate. That's an absolutely terrible match. Surely the Crucible will do better by him the second time.It certainly won't pair him with Snowagain.Not that Baz wants that!...until he does.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91
Collections: COE Winter 2020





	Fool's Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starwarned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/gifts).



> Here's chapter 1 of my Carry On Exchange fic for the incredible starwarned! 🥰  
> This will take place from Baz's first year at Watford, all the way up to the post-Watford years. Most things in canon apply, except for one big change: the Crucible is brought out _twice_ a year...!  
> I hope you enjoy this exploration of how things spiral out from there~

September, First Year

_‘The Crucible will do the right thing.’_ That’s what Father said.

It’s the first day of the school year at the Watford School of Magicks. Lessons don’t begin until tomorrow. Today has been for the welcoming ceremony and tour for us, the first years, and a more casual welcome-back ceremony for the older students. We’re now all being gathered together for the year’s first sacred ritual: The Crucible’s Roommate Ceremony.

I’ve been nervous for weeks leading up to this but have been trying to hide it from Father. I think he’s been nervous, too. He’s been strangely attentive lately, and he spent many awkward moments during this morning’s drive to Watford talking to me. That’s not what we do—talk. Not really.

It was fine when Father was explaining what boarding at Watford would be like, or laying out his expectations for me both academically and socially. It was even fine when he started to talk about the importance of my legacy as Natasha Pitch’s son and the sole hope for the Pitch line. (My aunt Fiona is a lost cause, apparently.) But ... then he started to _actually_ talk ...

I didn’t know what to say. We don’t talk about Mother’s death or what happened that day. Once a year, we visit her grave in Hampshire, set down flowers, and each share a nice memory we have of her. (I don’t have many—I was only 5 when she died.) (Father has tons. I’ve never heard the same one twice.) No matter what, though, we _never_ talk about what happened on the 12th of August, 2002.

“It might be strange,” Father began. His hands were tightly gripping the steering wheel at 10 and 2 as the Jaguar glided in low gear along the country roads away from the estate. “Most of the staff you’ll meet today will be people who knew you as a baby.”

“I know.”

“You used to live there with her.”

“I know, Father. I remember.”

I watched his mouth twitch. “People might ... mention it.”

“I can handle it.”

Turns out that wasn’t the answer he wanted, because his eye twitched next. “Things are different there now, Basilton. You’ll be there as a regular student, not the Headmistress’s child. Some will offer condolences, and others will hold it against you, but the difference between friend and foe will not always be clear. You mustn’t let them mislead you.” He switched gears, his jaw clenched. “Stick with those whom you know for certain you can trust.”

“The Old Families.”

He nodded. I was relieved. “And whomever the Crucible casts you with. Your roommate will be someone important to you, if you cultivate the relationship properly.”

“Even if I’m not assigned someone from the Families?”

“Hm. I doubt that will happen ... but, yes. Even then.”

I stayed quiet. Questioning him didn’t seem wise.

After a moment, he spoke again: “The Crucible will do the right thing.”

Those words were reassuring to think back on as us first years were herded around Watford’s campus from one place of interest to another. My cousin, Dev, and I stuck near each other, but I mostly tuned him out. The tour was uncomfortable. I was surprised by how much of this campus is brand new to me. (Which was stupid.) (Of course a 5-year-old wouldn’t be brought to half of these buildings.) And … the parts I do remember are subtly different in ways that are just ... wrong.

There have been people absolutely everywhere. Students, teachers, staff, parents, prominent members from the Club … but not her.

Natasha Pitch isn’t here. She will never walk these halls again.

I feel so alone.

_‘Your roommate will be someone important to you ... The Crucible will do the right thing.’_

The sun is finally setting, so they’ve started carrying the Crucible out. I’m nearly bursting out of my skin with impatience. (No one can tell, I don’t think. I have very good composure.) I’m half-tempted to light the Crucible’s fire myself, thrust my hand at the first bloke who catches my eye, and then call it a damn night in my brand new room.

I don’t. I join the circle of my fellow first years gathered round the Crucible, and I wait with my hands in my pockets.

Watford’s Headmaster is the one to light the flame and recite the incantation. It should be my mother up there. She should be standing tall and proud as her new students experience this fateful moment. She should be giving me a private smile that says _‘I’m proud of you, little puff.’_

This, like everything else today, is all wrong. The Mage is the one delivering the incantation. It makes me want to scream. I bet Father’s blood is boiling. (It makes sense now why Aunt Fiona told me she wouldn’t be here today—I think she might commit murder if she witnessed this.)

I try to replace the Mage’s voice in my head with Mother’s. When that doesn’t work, I try to imagine my Father’s words in her voice instead. I think it’s been a while since I could recall what she sounded like ...

As the iron in the Crucible melts, we spread apart, giving the magic space to do its work. Slowly, the Crucible gets its hooks into us, right behind the belly-button. It’s meant to yank you towards the peer you’ve been matched with. Henceforth, the two of you are bound as roommates for the rest of your years at Watford. It’s a sacred and irreversible ruling.

Students stumble about the Great Lawn like drunk marionettes, laughing nervously. The first of the handshakes begin—that’s how you stop the awful tugging feeling. Eager introductions bubble up all around me. I’m meant to be doing the same, but I can’t bring myself to move.

I watch as Dev gets paired off with some ginger boy I don’t recognize.

I look for other familiar faces.

One by one, all the boys I know from the Club or the Families are ruled out.

The tugging in my gut is getting worse. I still can’t stomach the thought of moving.

_Find me. Whoever you are. I don’t care. Just come find me._

And then I see him.

He’s standing all alone, mouth hanging open and wide eyes jumping about as he searches for his match. His hair is buzzed short, and his clothes must be cast-offs. Watford’s standards really have fallen ever since the Mage took over ...

A thought tickles at the back of my mind, but it doesn’t get a chance to form. Before I realize it, I’ve started walking towards him.

_Please, tell me it’s you._

He smiles at me like he’s relieved to see me, and the knot in my stomach pulls tighter.

_Do I know you?_

We pause a few feet apart. He thrusts his hand at me. His arm is dotted with freckles and moles. His face, as well. 

Something clicks, finally.

“Snow,” I say.

He waggles his fingers impatiently. “Yeah. Here.”

Most people view their new roommate as their future best friend, and many go so far as treating the Crucible’s matchmaking like the ultimate decree of platonic love.

That’s pure sentiment. Roommates don’t _have_ to be best mates—they don’t even have to get along. They simply need to live together for eight years and never hurt each other within their room. A low bar to clear, especially since the matches are supposed to be ideal.

_‘The Crucible will do the right thing.’_

Unless you’re me, apparently.

Or Simon Snow.

* * *

I’m still in a daze about it when it’s time to say goodbye to our families. Father must be able to tell because I think he’s trying to console me.

“We can make this work in our favour, Basilton.”

Simon Snow, the boy the entire World of Mages has been abuzz over these past few weeks, is my roommate.

That can’t be right. We’re already fated to be enemies! Not through an ancient magickal ritual, sure, but it’s something fundamental just the same. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, heir to Watford’s late Headmistress, could never be anything other than enemies with Simon Snow, adopted heir to Watford’s usurper. We stand on opposite sides of a great chasm. Why would the Crucible force us to reach across the divide and shake hands?

Father squeezes my shoulder. “You can keep an eye on him and report back to the Families. This is _good_ , Basil.”

 _‘Good,’_ he says.

I have to believe him. The Crucible’s sole job is to make _good_ matches, after all. So good that it’s been in service since the Iron Age, doling out ideal mates before Watford even existed.

And yet ...

I don’t see how Simon Snow and I could ever be a good match.

June, First Year

I was right.

It was a terrible match.

 _We_ are a terrible match.

Snow can hardly string two words together, yet his mouth is always hanging open. He has zero control over his magic. He ignores my demands to keep the windows closed—even in winter!—and his side of the room is littered in abandoned homework assignments and dirty laundry. He chews his pens, knocks his feet against the desk, rocks on the back legs of his chair until he nearly topples, and...! And he’s just generally the most horrifically distractable, obnoxious 11-year-old boy in existence!

And he has the bottle to look offended when I tell him so!

Those stupid, blue, puppy dog eyes of his might work on others, but _they’re_ not the ones forced to room with him! Or to constantly plot his demise!

The summer holidays can’t come fast enough.

I’m going to spend the hols lying in my big bed in Hampshire, _blissfully alone_ , thinking of anything _except_ Simon Snow.

September, Second Year

That didn’t go to plan.

My stepmother, Daphne, is pregnant. It seems she and my father expected me to be upset about that, so Father spent his free moments trying to engage with me. To show me I’m not being replaced. Or something. Usually, that meant sitting in his study to discuss Snow and the Mage. Whenever I was free of that, Fiona would swoop in, cooking up all sorts of nasty pranks for me to unleash on Snow upon my return.

All summer long, it’s been ‘ _Simon Snow this’_ and ‘ _Simon Snow that’_. My head has been swimming with thoughts of him. I’ve hardly been able to sleep at night.

I climb the steps of Mummers House before the welcome back picnic, overflowing with the need to make Snow half as miserable as I’ve been.

I enter the room only to find Snow crying on his bed.

“Why are you _already_ weeping?” I snarl. “You’re ruining my plans to push you to tears.”

He glares at me. He looks terrible. Worse than when we first met, somehow. He looks well past miserable.

(Crowley, I forgot how his eyes get even bluer when he cries.)

“Leave me alone,” he blubbers before hiding his face in his pillow again.

I’m hit with the urge to comfort him. Not that I know anything about comforting people. I don’t think a clap on the shoulder and a _‘buck up, old boy’_ is going to do the trick. I suppose I could give him one of my handkerchiefs …

_What in the seven hells am I thinking?_

I decide to do Snow the one favour: I leave him alone.

We’ll just have to start year two of Baz versus Simon another time.

Not like we have any other choice.

May, Third Year

_‘I thought that was a myth.’_ That’s the Chosen One’s favourite line. Practically a marketable slogan at this point. He should put it on t-shirts, right under a picture of his moronic grinning face: Saviour of the World of Mages? Thought that was a myth!

If only we were all so lucky.

The latest thing to befuddle our hero is why the Crucible is making an appearance at Watford’s Beltane festivities. Despite this being his third year at this school, he clearly missed the part during the previous two festivals where the Crucible was brought out. Though, to be fair, he skipped the festival entirely our first year—too exhausted from mercilessly exploding a dragon the previous day. I don’t know what his excuse is for last year though, and I don’t care.

He’s here _now_ , shamelessly questioning Penelope Bunce as nearly all of Watford gathers on the Great Lawn to watch as the fifth years face their fate. I’m standing a ways off from Snow and his entourage, yet I can still pick out his voice over the other many conversations.

“What, like a soulmate?” Snow baulks. (Cue the QI klaxon.)

“Or the nearest thing, anyway,” Bunce agrees. “If you want to get all religious about it.”

I really shouldn’t be surprised that Snow, raised like the filthy Normal he is, has never heard of magicmates before. This is the same numpty who thought the Tooth Fairy was make-believe. Poor Bunce has to fill him in on everything. Such a waste of her intellect.

(Which suits me well, otherwise she’d be even more of a threat to my spot at the top of the class.) (Last year, Dev, his roommate, and I spelled misinformation into Snow’s textbooks, purely so that Bunce would have to waste time re-educating him. While it was jolly good fun in the moment, I’m too mature for such cheap tricks now.)

Bunce puts on her _‘I want to sound like I’m quoting magickal texts by heart’_ voice: “The Crucible became the primary match-making tool of the British Isles no later than the 1200s, though it’s likely been in use since the Iron Age. Due to information only being spread by word-of-mouth, plus the rapid evolution of language around that time, the Crucible’s matching spell began to morph. It was less about cohabiting in the bedmates sense and more about searching for peaceful coexistence in a world increasingly hostile to speakers of magic. By the time Watford was formed in the 1500s, the incantation was best off being used here, for what would soon become known as the Roommate Ceremony. Then, in the mid-1600s, at the peak of England’s witch trials, as our numbers dwindled and magickal lineages grew worryingly self-referential, the Coven thought it best to reinvigorate the Crucible’s original match-making intentions. Thus, the Magicmate Ceremony was born. In fifth year, halfway through your Watford education, you gather around the Crucible once more, and it searches out your magic-match.”

I don’t have to look at him to know Snow’s eyes have glazed over.

“So...,” he says slowly, “the Crucible’s matches used to be about baby-making ... then about picking out good roommates instead ... but mages were inbreeding too much ... so now the Crucible’s also involved in that business again?”

“I ... well. Something like that.”

It’s annoying he’s not exactly wrong. Though he’s not exactly right, either.

Naturally, magicians are an insular group—we can’t all go around like my Aunt does, snogging Normals and throwing away our chance to pass on our magic to the next generation. Mages _only_ marry other mages, and we only breed within our community. (Yes, admittedly, it makes the family trees a bit of a mess, but that’s what good record-keeping is for.) So, while breeding is the … expected outcome of the match, the Magicmate Ceremony is purely for finding someone you’re perfectly magickally compatible with.

The magickal atmosphere is a neutral source where all mages get their magic. Most people describe it like fetching water from a well. Not in my family; water would be a terrible metaphor—we’re fire mages. That’s the thing about magic: Even though we draw it from the same source, the form the magic takes once inside is unique to each person. Like a fingerprint. Or a soul.

You can’t feel another mage’s magic until they start casting near you. That’s why we need the Crucible to bring us together safely. Otherwise, it’s only through trial and error that we can discover whether or not we’re in good company. Not only due to the threat of hiding from the Normals, but also the danger of magickal incompatibility. It’s the sort of thing that can worsen with increased exposure. You can like a person well enough—you can even be madly in love with them—but if your magics repel each other … Well, that’s when true madness begins.

So they say, anyway. It’s rare for magic to be _that_ volatile, but most mages would rather not risk it. Up until recently, other than the Normals, such a thing was the only real threat we faced.

Then the dead spots started opening up. Holes in the magickal atmosphere caused by the Insidious Humdrum, stealing our magic. Avoiding the holes is obviously the best tactic, but more and more of them open up all the time....

Fixing the holes and slaying the Humdrum is Simon Snow’s sole job. It’s what he was “chosen” to do. Instead, he’s a complete menace in his own right. He’s the opposite of the holes—he’s bursting with magic. Literally, sometimes. That’s how he took down that dragon. And whatever other dark creatures the Humdrum sends. Snow can’t cast for the life of him, so instead he swings around that stupid Sword of Mages with his noodly pre-pubescent arms, and when that doesn’t work, he just … goes off. Like a bomb.

Even when he isn’t fighting, the magic still rolls off of him in waves.

No, not waves—water isn’t a good metaphor for Snow, either. It’s smoke.

The only reason I can’t smell it right now is because we’re standing outside, hundreds of us, as the bonfires are lit. Yet there’s still something … off about his magic. Always. It lures mages to him. Like in those old cartoons where someone floats along the scent-trails of a freshly baked pie. (Apple, surely.) It shouldn’t be like that. And when he’s got a strop on, it really kicks in—makes people act absolutely foolish. Intoxicated.

Not me. It just makes me angry. He stinks up our room. And whenever I prod him, he blusters and bubbles and smokes things up even more. It’s terrible. There’s nothing alluring about sharing a room with fire and brimstone.

I watch as the fifth years join their hands in a circle round the Crucible. I’m still cursing it for matching me with Snow. I can hardly wait until I’m in fifth year, when I get to step before the bloody thing again and have it find my magicmate. I’ll still be stuck with Snow as a roommate, but I’m sure having a magicmate will at least lessen the sting. Give me something other than him to focus on.

I’ll get paired up with some … tolerable girl from a strong magicline. She’ll be well-bred and looking to be a good mother one day. She can have all the little Grimm-Pitch babies she wants, and my father and stepmother will dote on them like they do their own new brood. They’ll all be beside themselves with happiness.

It will be good.

The Crucible will do the right thing.

I just have to be patient and not get involved with anyone before then. It shouldn’t be hard; I have no interest in any of the girls here. Gangly little things with shrill laughs and greasy fringes and absolutely awful taste in shoes. Not that the boys are any less revolting—I don’t think 13 is a kind age to anyone—but at least with boys, it’s expected. I thought girls were supposed to be better than this.

When Snow disgusts me, it makes me want to shove him to the ground and maybe bite his cheek, or something. Right on that one stupid mole I keep fixating on. But when a girl disgusts me, my skin crawls and it makes me want to never set eyes on another of their kind ever again.

(Dev assures me that’s normal.) (The girl-part, not the Snow-part.) (I haven’t told him the Snow-part.)

Agatha Wellbelove is the only girl of our year who stands out for a good reason. She’s pretty and poised. The most unappealing thing about her is that she’s part of Snow’s entourage.

I chance looking over at them now. Snow, Bunce, and Wellbelove are huddled together, listening with interest as the Mage reads the incantation. (The Mage could read the phone directory, and I bet the three of them would hang on his every word.) The firelight is catching nicely in Wellbelove’s long, pale hair. I can see Snow stealing glances at her. He has no idea how his own mop of hair looks. Like liquid bronze. Like dancing flames. Like it’s _alive_.

He whispers something to her. She chuckles behind her hand, and he seems well pleased with himself.

Idiot. He’s far from the only boy to be crushing on Wellbelove, but if there’s anyone stupid enough to actually try to get with her, it would be him. It’s an unwritten rule at Watford: Don’t get serious with someone before the Beltane festival. Why develop feelings, only to run the risk of being matched with someone else?

Better to leave it to the Crucible. Let it find you someone you’re undoubtedly compatible with, then forge a relationship from there.

It’s easier to learn how to love than to stop.

That’s what they say.

I hope I get paired with Wellbelove when the time comes. Wouldn’t Snow just hate that?

March, Fourth Year

_‘I hate you!’_ That’s what Snow just screamed at me.

It hurts. I don’t know why. We’re enemies. We harass each other constantly. We’re both well aware we’ll have to fight to the death one day. Hate should come naturally to us. But ... to hear him scream it, so passionately—and for what? All because I made an arse of him in a pick-up game of footie while his precious Agatha was watching?

I clear my throat. “Well, Snow, I’d like to tell you the feeling’s mutual,” I say, plucking up the ball, “but you’re not worth it. Honestly, I hardly think of you at all.”

“I’ll give you something to think about!” he roars.

And then the fucker breaks my nose. 

* * *

It’s healing crookedly. As if my nose needed any further prominence.

I stare at my reflection in the en suite’s mirror and let my self-pity finally be overtaken by fury. I’m done licking my wounds over this. Snow wants me to hate him? Fine! Done!

I should go hunt him down right now. Break his nose in return. It’ll polish off that thuggish Blackpool look of his. Then I’ll smear the blood around on his ridiculous apple-cheeks. Lick it off my hand. Lick it off his _face_ —

The old porcelain sink groans under my grip. I stumble back, strangely breathless. Woozy, even. I feel ...

I give my head a hard shake.

I’m a Pitch. I have no need to resort to brawling. I’ll make the Mage’s Heir miserable the way I do best—through magic and cunning.

Besides, I can’t break his nose. Then we actually _would_ match.

That’s just about the worst thing I can think of.


End file.
